


The Sword in the Trunk

by Diane Marling (Lauredessine)



Series: The Sword of Stones [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Courtroom Drama, Drama, Drama & Romance, Fantasy, Gen, High Fantasy, Magic, Origin Story, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Romance, Swordfighting, Swords, Witchcraft, Witches, World Trees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-10-16 21:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17553305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauredessine/pseuds/Diane%20Marling
Summary: On her way to adventure, Aelys stumbles upon an ancient sword which runes glow. Little does she know that it holds a great power than can activate the old stones scattered across the world; that it can bend their magic to her own will. Yet, Einar the Vargild plans on gifting the sword to his father, the great king Harald, for him to be finally accepted as a trueborn son and not as a bastard; but the sword says so itself: no one can wield it but its wielder, otherwise it would lead to dreadful consequences.Aenor, heir to the throne of Valmar, declared illegitimate by the highest members of the court fret about her half-brother, first born of her mother the queen Beatrix, who desire to take over the crown he deems his. To defend what her mother promised her, Aenor will have to fight against a court of snakes and vipers to protect her due, but also her twin brother, the valorous Aldebrand, sent away to mend peace with the neighbor kingdom Odomar. She will have to fight against Bertulf, against Guimar, but also for Valmar, for its access to the sea, for its glory to be born again from the ashes of its decay.





	1. Prologue

Burning lights

In high ether

Fleeting and fast.

High trees and stones of glass

Golden kin and mighty blades

In the west lay those marvels

A misty sea; a dark forest;

A wooden throne and high columns;

Sister, sister. This land awaits.

Sister, sister. May this awake.

Sister, sister. ‘tis in our blood.

Magic, sister, and lasting gods.

 


	2. 1

Queen Beatrix shifted on her high chair, her hair a shadow of its former glory, her skin an ashy-brown, her amber eyes barely sparkling. She tried to straighten her back but was struck with a sudden cough which she tried to repress. Her crown, a thick strip of gold crusted with red stones, almost dangled atop her head, yet her attire was a masterful of silks and silver. From time to time, her brows furrowed, her lips twitched in disapproval, but hardly stood up to blaze her power for fear her weakening limbs might bring her down.

She weakly asked Aenor by her side. The maiden crossed the thronged circle of counselors, ministers, wiselings and priests spared of the nibbling annoyance of silkened and perfumed courtiers. Her head high, long braids bouncing on her back and pale dress dragging on the feet-polished flagstones, she carried herself queenly and leaned to the queen’s ear with deference while some priest rambled about the state of the temples. Beatrix's voice was soft, almost weak but still Aenor gave a twitch of lips at the iron beneath.

“Master the priest. Bend them to your will. It is crucial, in dire days, to have a spare of nimble folk to use. Even the worthless are worth something. If not for their mother, then at least for a crafty queen.”

Aenor nodded before she turned to the circle, half a smile begging to spread on her ever hardened face. Beatrix shifted once more, wrathful wrinkles sharpening on her gaunt face.

“What I say, wise one,” said Bertulf with a honeyed voice, circling around the fire-pit at the center of the round thick-pillared room beneath the large throne room. “Is that skirmishes east of our realm deprived us of an important part of the treasury. It is my belief that the gods can wait. After all, isn’t Hesar most patient a mother? Surely she can temper Iular the quick-tempered and reassure Aesar the devout.”  
The priest, a confusion of female and male features fiddled at a long necklace, their jaw set and hard. “It is because of your idleness and sparse offerings to the gods that you never reclaimed our most precious blue.”

An angered hubbub of anger, outrage and rage at that. Some war-hardened men spat on the smooth flagstones and councilmen snarled. Aenor's eyes grew dark and Beatrix grasped the armchair knuckle-white, all the while, straightening her back, hard as war.

“The sea is not lost forever! Where is your belief?” Said Guimar, standing beside the queen as was his place as Queenside. “Why, would you be so unfaithful as to doubt your queen? Would you act in treachery?”  
Beatrix’s eyes suddenly blazed with rage and she stood tall, beckoning Aenor to remain by her side. She winced at the pain and her breath caught in her throat but concealed her weakness beneath a mask of iron. “My husband, Queenside Guimar is most right.” He gave her a cold smile, barely polite, barely an insult. “Devising and acting against me would indeed be betrayal - betrayal - I say high treason! - and he would do well” she gave him a high and mighty look. “To remember it. As far as I am concerned and in spite of my grievances with the gods and their servants I shall be fair, for they placed me on the throne with the favor of fate. Indeed, the temples were left with holes in their once burbling chests, but, wise one, you must reckon that many are the temples outside Rockhall that are left crumbling; more also that are left to be burned and plundered by king John’s army. So far as this enemy isn’t vanquished, your temples will burn and no gold will aid you, for Odomar has sworn our death.”

“I meant no disrespect your majesty.” They said. “I merely expressed the concerns of the gods.”

“I hear your concerns.” Beatrix's voice rang loud and clear in the dark room, her white thick braids dangling to her knees. “Whether it is priest's, wiseling's, or erudite's, I hear all words. I hear the gods' also. I hear those of my husband, Guimar, of my most respected advisors, I hear words and words and words but I scarcely see any action in the turmoil of it all. Let me hear words from he who guards our chests. Theobald, step forward and enlighten us.”

A man of thirty stepped forward, a thick key dangling from his belt, a gem-crusted dagger on the other side, his silk-woven-tunic reaching his knees and a crimson cloak fastened around his broad shoulders – though the belt almost burst off his large belly. His pale hair matched pale brows, pale eyelashes and his brown skin matched his narrow chestnut eyes. He looked like a pimp whose face had been stretched across. Aenor nearly snorted at the rich allure. She would laugh if she did not despise the man.

Theobald shook himself as to give his figure an important frame, his head high and eyelids heavy so that it seemed he looked down on everyone with a scorn. “The trade is good down-river and our steel remains the envy of this part of the world. Our lowering taxes upriver to Rockhall, the mountains and Whiterock drew many Luths and Southerners. In spite of Odomar's greed upon the sea, the treasury seems as constant as the sky though meager harvests on honey made our incomes fickle. Notwithstanding, the knights are bankrupt and they cost much money to keep. For all the good they did us, they do not prove themselves grateful and instead of paying their due, they spend what we give them ostentatiously. I say our investments were not returned to their full worth.”

“It was a mistake for queen Bathild, the gods watch on her sleep, to dub so many peasants. All that for nothing!” a young man said in the midst of the throng.

“How dare you bring insult to the crown?” yelled a bearded old richly-dressed man.

“He is right! The crown has lost!”

“We are done paying for mistakes!”

“This is the crown you are talking about!”

Beatrix frowned and snapped her hand in the air, commanding silence all around. Silence thus, in the dark hall, resonating against cold gray stone roughly cut to fit into stiff inelegant columns. Only the crackle of the fire spoke now, this and the glares of Guimar towards his wife, the impassive face of Aenor and the frowns of Bertulf.

“I hear your qualms.” her voice was soft-spoken but iron gave it a dangerous edge. “I hear that our investments were poor ones and I hear your complaints upon my ancestor's decision. The chests are not so swollen and we are barely surviving and Odomar still gnaws at us. It would be foolish to wage war now, even more so when so many of our knights are untrained. I hear the woes of the clergy, but I am afraid the only way to see through it is to endure and make out the best of what we have. I have spoken.” she sat down and gave a hard eye round the room.

The priest bowed down reluctantly, a displeased smile meanly spreading across their gaunt face. “It is as you speak, my queen.”

“So it is.” Beatrix nodded. “What of the state of war, lord Thiebert?”

“Our scouts report yet another work site for yet another tower by the border. Odomar has stopped gnawing south, now they gnaw east.” said an old withered weathered-hard man, knuckles white tight around the shaft of his gem-crusted dagger.

Beatrix's brows slightly creased, her lips hardened into a thin line. “And our army is but feeble in front of John's threat. They seek to swallow us, I reckon.”

“It seems so, my queen.”

Beatrix sighed a tired one. “War will not do. Diplomacy is the answer to what John riddles us with.”

“If I may, my queen,” a middle-aged towering brawny silken man stepped out of the throng. “Diplomacy will do us no good. It will make us seem weak and poor. We need steel. We need to battle Odomar and we need it fast.”

Beatrix's eyes went hard and cold. “What would you fight a war with, my lord Fredegar? Flowers? Sticks? Twigs? Rocks?”

Fredegar reddened. “I was thinking blades, my queen.”

“There is an old saying,” Beatrix pondered coyly. “War-Anvil is iron-gold dipped in churning blood. War is fought with money, with blades and men. So far we lack two of those spices. We cannot cook up our way to victory.”

“But we have weapons. We have steel. We have Mah-”

Beatrix snapped her head towards the young man who had spoken, cutting short to his words. “I will hear nothing of her, boy!” anyone who had spent more than a year at court knew never to bring up the subject. “Our expenses do not permit a war. Our resources simply cannot allow it.” her voice grew tame, as flat as ever.

“But, with our weapons...” the lad insisted.

“We cannot wage war! In spite of all the knights we have in the kingdom, king John has more. We have steel, he has blood. We have blades, he has gold. We have hard-beaten warriors, he has men to slaughter them; better trained men, better armed men.” Beatrix said, raising her eyes to the man in front of her.

“But our...”

“Weapons! You said that once! Know your place!” she warned with a shaking authority as a mortified whisper ran round the throng. “Our blades, as strong and sharp as they are, are too expensive and you know very well, as a member of the court, that this kingdom is losing money. Valdemar knows what happened to my late great-grandmother's treasure! Gone! Gone with those useless knights!” Beatrix gave a sharp breath and weighed the worth of the lad that had spoken, trying to figure out whether he had use to be kept or if she should assign him to his countryside fortress until he learned respect. What was certainty was that he ought to be severely hied. “We need trade and trade routes are not enough. We need an access to the sea to attract the lords of Luthia and merchants of the Vaneland.”

“What about piracy?” Aenor cautiously asked in the background, her voice a soft whisper.

She received Bertulf's glowering eyes and Guimar's barely hidden mutterings about how a bastard should know its place.

“If we can buy their allegiance, the Varglids will benefit us. They can harass king John by the sea like the wolves they are and he will send his troops to defend the shores of his kingdom and his strongholds. What is more, our spies report that his ambitions lays South of Austrasia and to the Eltlands. I can assure you he will divide his attention. In the meantime, we need diplomacy. We have to preserve the kingdom and build our greatness back. A thousand hard-armed warriors cannot prevail upon fewer men better armed and trained than them. Our claims are just. King John must see it. And by Iular, I swear he will see.”

“It is as you say my queen.” croaked the young Fredegar.

Aenor quietly snorted, concealing contempt while her eyes wandered to Bertulf, whispering words to Guimar's ear. The lad recoiled in the midst of the crowd, eyes down, shame up.

Beatrix eased on her chair, feeble hand resting on her lap. “We need diplomacy and that is the end of it. A delegation shall be sent in my name to Highcastle where our pleas and demands will reach king John. A man always wants something after all.” her eyes vaguely crossed Guimar's. “Who better to lead the delegation than a prince?” Bertulf breathed himself more important. “Aldebrand will go.” her words cold as ice.

Bertulf looked as though he had been struck and reddened with a churning rage, while Aenor bit her lower lip, eyes wide in mild horror. With Aldebrand gone she would be all alone.

“It will be as I say.” Beatrix's eyes crossed her daughter's. Her voice left no space for objections.

All nodded. An erudite then stepped forward, hesitant, old, staggering on weak worn-out legs, a shapeless robe dragging on the floor. “Speaking of princes, my queen, there comes the matter of your youngest, Charibert.”

Guimar sneered. “The cripple.”

Beatrix paid him no mind and did as though she did not hear his words, but her eyes betrayed her as they suddenly grew darker than ever, her lips thinner than the finest thread, her cheeks gaunter, gripping the arm-rest of her chairs so tight it looked like she would shatter it. “What about him?” she tried in vain to give her voice a steady tone.

“He has mastered all the tests to Aeckar's temple.”

“Did he?” the queen asked, a cold hard edge in her voice.

“He did. With shrewd craftiness he did.” an unspoken pride filled the old priest's eyes.

“That boy...” Beatrix seethed. “Postpone it. So long as I live and breathe I will not allow him among your ranks.”

Guimar snapped. “Why wouldn't you? The boy is useless. He cannot fight, he cannot work. Best you could do is let him rot into a temple. Then he'll stop being a burden.”

“My queen, I must confess that I agree with Queenside Guimar for once,” Guimar gave her a cold repulsive grin to which Aenor answered with a polite indifference. “Charibert is nothing like your other son. I reckon he would be of better use in a temple, though Aeckar's seems like a long shot. Perhaps would it be best were he an erudite.”

The old erudite ran his fingers along his long silver beard. “I must say it sounds more appropriate, my queen. Young Charibert would do Iular's Temple good. A lot of good.”

“I am his mother!” Beatrix's voice echoed across the high crypt. “I decide what is best for him and what is best for him is patience! Charibert must wait.” Aenor tried an objection but Beatrix snapped her hand in the air to end the conversation. “I will hear none of it. Charibert shall do what he pleases the day my blood feeds the earth.”

Aenor shivered, her eyes aloof, sadness tiding in.

“Not so soon, my queen. Not so soon.” the erudite said.

The queen faintly smiled. “Naturally. Something begun should always be finished.” she gave Aenor a brief look, “I trust that my successor will perpetuate what I started and begin something anew for their successor to finish and so on.”

Bertulf glowered. “So it will be, mother.”

Beatrix snapped at him. “I am not your mother, here. I am your queen. Address me as such.”

“So you say, my queen.” his voice was cold, hard and he gazed at Aenor as though she was responsible for it. He wrinkled his nose and whispered something to his father.

An old withered man stepped forward. His frame was that of a seasoned-warrior who had decayed with age and wine. His brown skin seemed almost as dull as Beatrix's aside for his red nose and red cheeks and red lips. “There comes another matter, my queen.” he cautiously said.

“Which is it, my lord Bertram?”

Beatrix always knew their names. She had told Aenor it was a source of pride for them to know their names and high feats known, that every man craved attention and that of powerful people, men and women alike was for them more precious than gold, for power rippled to them and they could taste a nibble of that sweet smooth perfect might. “Always remember their names,” she said. “For therein lies true power. Names have as much value as gold.”

The entire assembly braced themselves. It was customary for issues to be resolved from the most puny, to the most important and that day almost all matters the speaker had said would be dealt with had been devised, met and agreed. For this matter to come after war and succession, it sure should be rattling some thrones.

“There comes the matter of the young Aelys who crossed the border and is now a prisoner of Odomar, wanted by them. They say she is a spy of yours, my queen.”

Beatrix frowned. “Why should it concern me? I do not know her, nor do I know her family.”

“She is the daughter of a man named Aalart, in the remote mountains. Our information is that she has been fostered by her uncle Rayner the blacksmith and escaped after she had burned her sister. Another sister of hers is said to be married to the knight Herbert. That is an old family, my queen. Paupers, but old.”

Beatrix waved it off. “Let them hang her if she was so stupid a girl for crossing that border unauthorized. What is so important a matter with that?”

Bertram fidgeted. “She escaped my queen. There lies the issue.”

“Did she?”

“King John claims this an act of war on our part.”

Beatrix gave a bitter laugh. “This old dog! Anything is an excuse to nibble at us. I suppose our need for this delegation has turned to be all the more dire. That is a daunting task that awaits Aldebrand.” she snapped her fingers to Aenor. “You will tell your brother of this. I want him gone by the end of the week.”

Aenor nodded. She frowned and stepped forward. “If I may, my lord Bertram,” she politely uttered.

Bertram gave a cautious look to Beatrix who nodded.

“Many are those who crossed the border and escaped. We never received word of war on their account. Why should this one be any different?”

Bertram scratched the back of his head nervously. “That is because magic was involved in this.”

An uproar ran through the room as many ministers muttered between them, erudites, priests and wiselings blanched and old councilors rattled the floor with nervous fidgeting. Spit soon littered the polished flagstones and a few sparse curses echoed against the cold stones like thunder in a ghostly night. Speaking of magic was speaking of curses and death. Magic was never to be brought up. Magic was never to be witnessed. Magic was darkness. Darkness was to be annihilated.

“Speak.” Beatrix ordered, her firm voice numbing the hubbub.

“They say she escaped a fire uninjured. They say she allied herself with – with a witch.” he stammered. “They freed all the prisoners, set up the fire and left. They also say all the guards killed one another. It was a slaughter. None survived.”

Beatrix narrowed her eyes. “Is there more to it? What of the witch? An Eltling?”

Bertram nodded. “They say she is as old as time, but I say it is a decoy, a trick of the most wicked kind.”

“That girl... Aelys.” Beatrix pondered. “She burned her sister and escaped a fire unharmed.”

“What are you saying, my queen?” asked Aenor.

Beatrix shook her head. “Nothing. I am recalled of legends, that is all. But those legends died and our ancestors made sure that they would not rise from their ashes.”

“The Forgrons are long gone. Their craft can no longer harm us.” an old man said.

Beatrix's eyes grew suddenly afraid. “Perhaps.” she whispered. “Do you know where she went?” she asked, hardening her voice.

“No, my queen. We suppose the witch is going to get her to the Eltlands, the cursed forests.”

“Then it is crucial for Aldebrand to leave as soon as he can. She must not leave the country. She must be recovered, tried and hanged.”

“On what claims, my queen? She is of our own.”

Beatrix set her jaw. “She will be tried for allying a witch, for conspiring, for leaning to magic, for crossing the border. So I have spoken.” her words a death sentence. “We will make an ally of John and kill her. The closer to one's enemy, the closer to victory.”

“Aye!” said the crowd in a loud and resounding unity.

Beatrix beckoned a young lean-legged lean-faced lad to step up. “Thus ends the orders of the court. So the crown has spoken.”

The speakers used to say _king_ in place of _crown_ , but once was three centuries ago, before Clothilde the wise took a hold on Valmar's throne, thus changing forever the design of kings. Now they said crown, for gold seemed much more powerful than the line of warlord who relied on blood for their power.

Little by little, the crypt emptied. A swarm of priests, wiselings and erudites walked through the door to their own temple where they would devise and rant about their queen's policies, not foolish enough to utter their doubts out loud. Fathers walked their sons out, sons walked their fathers out. In a few moments, only a few people remained.

Beatrix was in an intense conversation, still sitting on her high chair, with an old woman who frantically wiped her forehead and gave her a cup of hot spice-wine. The queen resembled one of those withered roses, dull, bleak, weak, meek. Her wrinkles seemed to have dug in her skin and her cheeks seemed to have sunken more. She closed her eyes as her head lolled back and forth.

Aenor judged it better to let her be for now and wait for her to beckon her by her side. She always did that when the assembly left. Said she ought to learn from what happened. Said she ought to remember faces and names. Said she ought to be prepared for one day wearing the crown.

Aenor walked round the thick pillars and stopped as she caught two familiar voices speaking in hushed whispers beside the door.

“... bastard to go. _You_ should have been appointed! No matter what the half-breed bitch thinks _you_ are the heir to the throne.”

“I know, father.” Bertulf said. “But with the boy gone, perhaps is it time to attempt something. The half-breed girl will be alone.”

“Not quite.” Guimar seethed. “The cripple. He follows them everywhere. Such a disgrace to his blood!”

“Are you afraid of him?”

Guimar snarled. “No. He wouldn't dare crossing his father. He's a weakling.”

Aenor felt herself cold with rage. Pictures roamed her mind of how to beget his demise, but toying with Guimar and Bertulf was walking on brittle glass. They were much too influent at court for her to attempt anything and knew that whatever she decided, her endeavors would always be foiled. By all accounts she trusted her mother, but she couldn't help the wariness churning all around.

“You'll need a new alliance.” Guimar sighed. “What do you say? Shall I find you a new wife? I recall the third is a barren bitch. You could always ask for an annulment.”

“No. Her family lords over too much land for me to discard her. She is better kept by my side until she breed me an heir. Besides, she is not that repulsive to bed.” He laughed. “Find me a girl, father. She better be rich and of fine breed. I want sons.”

“I shall see to it. Now, lord Fredegar needs to remember his place. See to it on your next hunting party.”

“No. He is far more precious to use. I will gain showing myself merciful.”

“You fill me with pride, my son.” his voice grew softer. “My _only_ son.”

“I was raised well.” he flippantly said. “Come to my feast tomorrow, will you? I am certain your elder daughter with be happy to see you.”

“Will her husband will be of the party?”

“You know Brunehaut. Never far from her husband.”

“A fine match, this marriage. Three of my children fill me with pride, the rest can rot.” Guimar spat.

She heard Bertulf's soft laugh, went a few steps away then crossed the door, faking her walking out in earnest innocence to what she heard. Guimar startled and Bertulf frowned. Surprise gone they took their usual haughty stance, Bertulf, lean and handsome-cold gave a pleasant smile, his thin lips thinner, a deadly edge. If both father and son shared the same white hair and fine features, Guimar's complexion was darker, his eyes were not of burning amber and instead of a lean frame, his was of a paunchy man whose brawn had faded with time, meat and wine. Both held their head high and Aenor gave them a courteous bow. There would come a time they would be the one bowing. If it were up to her, they would crawl at her feet.

“Aenor, always the pleasant encounter.” Bertulf's voice was of honey but he would fool no one in pretending his wasn't a deadly-edge tone.

“I was bewildered by your speaking today, brother.” Aenor gave an icy smile, hoping the works sank deep enough for Bertulf to feel insulted. “You were so eloquent. Ever the charmer I see. Why, I almost took you for a king.”

Bertulf's smile grew colder, meaner. “I was about to say the same about you.” he twisted a thick golden ring around his middle finger. “What were those whispers with mother? Has she finally found a suitable match for you? I hope someone worthy of your... rank.”

Aenor chuckled. “Oh I trust mother to find me a prince. Given my rank, perhaps a king.”

“You wear your hair too long.” Guimar seethed.

“They are the required length I reckon.”

Bertulf reached for one of her thick braids and wrung it in his hand. “Half of it is soiled. Why, it looks like you dragged it in a pigs' enclosure. Perhaps you ought to cut half of it.” his voice was of contempt and wrath. “I am worrying those councils are wearing you. Shouldn't you be in your room weaving or reading? It seems to me noble occupations for people of your sex.”

“Mother wanted me here.” Aenor took back her braid from his hand but he clasped it so hard she had to wrestle it out. “It provides good entertainment. Better than a scroll or a book on any account.”

Guimar faked a sorry sigh. “I am sorry to hear that your brother will leave soon. Rockhall sure will feel emptier without his tantrums, and the noises he makes with his uncouth sword. Here comes a man brave on every account, facing the court dressed like a barbarian or dressed in unfitting silk, stroking hard forests, sweating and warring for our realm. Oh, I couldn't imagine _my_ son in such a fashion.”

Aenor's eyes grew dark at the accusation on her brother's behalf. She broke her stare with a polite grin. “Oh Charibert is brave. Why, you must be so proud of him. Such a pleasant man, charming on every account, clever, pleasing... Oh, he surely limp but that is no flaw of his I reckon. Perhaps he was _made_ to limp. Perhaps it is a sign of his misfortune, perhaps it was the gods' wish to see that his legs are ill-matched. I often think it is a sign, but Charibert is so gentle it must not be what I think. There is so much of mother in him and so few of you.”

Guimar's smile faded, replaced by a mask of iron; cold and unforgiving. “We are often unfortunate in not resembling our fathers. It is fortunate that it is not the case for you. You and your brother are so alike – so alike – Your mold was the same I reckon. There is much of your father in you both. Let us hope you will not know the same fate.” he gave a crooked smile, twisted, cruel.

Aenor put on her brave face. “I doubt that. History rarely repeats itself perfectly. Aeckar always see to that as the guardian of fate.”

“Then I hope your brother prays to him daily. He is Adelart on every account, except one maybe.”

“Bastards tends to look like their fathers.” Bertulf snickered.

“Yours is well versed in that saying.” Aenor snapped.

Guimar's pleasant face darkened. “I fear that our lady Aenor is tired. Come Bertulf, let us leave and let her rest. It must be that time of the month.”

Bertulf nodded. “I bid you a good day, sister. May rest bring back some sense in your head.”

Away they went in a waft of heavy perfume and flip of vibrant silks and Aenor stood there, fists clenched knuckle-white, jaw set, gritty and raging. She gave a sharp breath and closed her eyes, leaning against a pillar for a fleeting moment before she snapped out of it and returned inside of the crypt to hear herself being called by her mother, still sitting on her throne, seemingly feeling better than a few moments ago when she was pale and weak.

Aenor sat in front of her on a stool, arraying her long dress so that it elegantly fell on the flagstones. The fire still crackled in the fire pit but it dwindled fast and embers smoldered in place of a blazing brazier. All around were shadows on stark stone, dim iron and dark tapestries stifling cold and warmth. The council room was a round one, large enough for a hundred men, tables and maps and seats sparse behind a thick curtain separating the throne area to the maps one. The narrow windows cut short on the floor and dipped to the very root of the palace. It was dark down here. It was meant for secrecy. Higher up, the throne room stood atop everything, its windows large and fat and clear so that it looked like a vast display of light and power. Aenor knew that if she walked down the stairs to the rooms below, she would soon find old crypts dug into the very rock upon which Valdemar's sons decided to build their fortress.

“You did well today.” Beatrix said.

Aenor bowed her head. “I yearn for your satisfaction.”

“I am satisfied.” She took a hold on herself. “Now, you must gather the full support of Hesar's wiselings and that of Aeckar's priests. I trust that Charibert will soon have the support of Iular's erudites. It is a good thing you and him spent a great deal of your childhood together. If wielded well, he can give you a most necessary support.”

Aenor gave her a beseeching look. “He is not versed in court-games, mother. Why can't he be left out of it? Please.”

Beatrix shook her head. “Family, love, innocence, friendship,forget it! A queen finds use in them and wields them as weapons, but be careful, for all swords have a double edge. You must never bask in it too long for fear it will weaken you. Like a blade, you are of iron, heart of iron, will of iron. Iron doesn't feel. Iron cuts. Never falter. It is you who wield them.

She sighed. “I did not deliver him for nothing.” she seethed gritting. “I _refuse_ to acknowledge the pain it was from start to finish and think that it was in vain. He must be of use and he shall be of use for _you_.” she sighed. “Alas, Bertulf is too good a courtier and he has his sibling's support, save Charibert. Clothilde will soon ascend to greater power and she'll use it for Bertulf's benefits. Before she does so and become the great wiseling of Hesar, you must meddle with them and try to stymie her attempts.” she took Aenor's hand in hers. “I wouldn't put my offspring against one another if it weren't for a good reason. My sons are their father's, my daughters are not mine, save you. You were molded after me and when the time comes you will ascend the crown.”

“You have been preparing me for it.”

Beatrix nodded. “And I have no regrets. Only pride.”

“Wouldn't it be best for me to marry?” Aenor fidgeted. “Preferably to a man of influence.”

“No. Marriage is fickle. Only once crowned will you wed. I do not want you trapped in a marriage with odds this shifting.” She gave a joyless smile. “For now you ought to play them and smile for men to bow and bend to your will. Seduce them, entice them and remain free. Show them all of was you can promise.”

Aenor nodded, heart wrung around her mother's words. She longed for a successful marriage. It could be loveless, it could be lonely, it could even be with a man unfaithful when it came to humping, but Aenor needed an ally. She needed to root her power deep into the ground of Rockhall. She needed to be shrewd and she needed her own court.

“Why are you sending Aldebrand?” Asked Aenor. “Weren't it you who assigned him to the training of our army? Weren't your decision to keep him from harm?”

Beatrix gave a taut smile. “Your memory doesn't falter. Yes, I wish him away from harm and I want him to serve you the best he can, but I fear that if he stays for too long at court he will die. He is a man of battlefield and it is not a treacherous battleground. At court he faces deceit and backstabbing and I would rather he died facing his foe.”

“There is more to that than you wish to tell.”

Beatrix gave a tired sigh. “There is, my daughter.” her voice grew soft and almost quiet. “There is more to diplomacy than a mere display of politeness and manners. Aldebrand is to spy for us, to evaluate the army, the strongholds, the breaches of Odomar's walls, to investigate about strength and weaknesses. He is to play the part of an illegitimate prince from a withering kingdom and with what he shall tell me, I will cook up leverage enough to steer John like the dog he is.” she eased herself in her chair. “We need a war and we need it fast. John hates magic, especially when it does not go his way. He will wage war against the witches of the Eltlands, no matter of sparse. He will spare no means to have it his way. Our odds are good.”

“What do you mean?”

Beatrix gave a fierce chuckle, straightening herself on her seat with a sudden burst of strength. “That this young Aelys provided us with a wonderful decoy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it begins. Here is the first installment to the Sword of Stones. I hope you enjoyed this first chapter well enough. Be ready to get introduced to Aelys soon.


	3. 2

She didn't know where they were taking her. She didn't know what she had done wrong – to them at least. She didn't know why they kept glancing at her with apparent scorn. She didn't know why they seemed to consider the white-skinned crone more of a danger than herself. She didn't know why the crone strode, almost ran, behind them so obediently. She didn't know why she never looked at her – even for a glimpse, even to catch a sense of solidarity. She didn't know the tongue with which she muttered to the battered grass, battered rocks and battering sky. She didn't know what would happen when they would stop marching. She didn't think she would like to know either.

She did know that once past the last stronghold of Valmar she had been given chase by riders geared up with blue tunics and silvery mail that blinded her with the flaring sun of the hot season. She did know that they binded her hands and mouth, that they took for themselves her bag of clothes, her purse and belongings and shared it between them like some plentiful bounty. She did know that they tied her to the crone's heavy chains, something heavy and rattling, weighing the crone's and hers. She did know that she tried to escape once and was beaten severely afterwards, ribs broken, arm twisted, face bruised, limbs sore, breath cut, lips slit and she did know that they had fastened the rope tighter around her wrist, almost as to cut them completely and she did know that her dress was falling into rags, covered with blood of all sorts, mud-crusted and stenching with rotten fabric.

She knew enough, except why.

The nights were long and the days short marching the stretching steppe. Walking was something soothing despite the absence of any desire for walking towards the unknown. Walking was almost liberating under the flaring sun. Walking eased the pain.

As she walked, Aelys sometimes glanced back, to the tall mountains covered with snow, there, far away yet so near in their massive grandeur, at the end of the endless smooth steppe, swept by the gales of wind howling in the branches of lonely trees; that steppe, dangerous and foreign which bode nothing good by its sounds and the cruel wildness of its design; that steppe, desperately inhuman where no souls dwelt. Her beloved mountains she knew green turned blue and the yellow high grass wild horses grazed greened each steps they took.

They soon arrived to a large river which snaked from the tall mountains to what looked like green hills, whose water was barely shaken by gales, by which the guards filled their goatskins, rested and made horses drink, deliberately forgetting about their prisoners, firmly tied to a pole stuck deep into the ground like meek sheep.

The wind kept howling, whispering in people's ears about perils and betrayal; beckoning for blood to feed the ground and the ancient rivulets of power that slept within. That treacherous wind, seething, like a snake and taking everything on the steppe in a violent embrace. That wind that took everything from warmth to scent if not that of prisoners kept in squalor.

On the second day, after another painful eternity of scrambling on sore legs, the wind suddenly ceased to leave its place to an unbearable heat, mercilessly knocking up the humans who dared cross the steppe with no water.

Aelys was tied to the crone at night and they slept in the open, offered to merciless winds and biting cold.

They kept walking, freezing, beaten. Aelys felt her bones creaking, felt her flesh agonizing, staggered, sobbed, her eyes dry with the heat, frozen with the cold.

They were tied to a tree that night, a lonely tree for a desolate land. It had been a few days, Aelys thought five when it was really more. The crone mumbled, her fists white around her rags, hair loose and disheveled, her fingers, leather-like and circled with dark patterns of black working around a thin cord, grumbling curses under her breath, her voice hoarse and seething, hardly faltering. She hardly spent a glimpse on Aelys and was instead fixated, her white eye blazing thunderbolts, on the guards laughing around a fire in front of them, bellowing saucy jokes, boasting of the size of their cocks and counting the women they had humped while scornfully mocking the noblemen of the capital city.

She grinned, her teeth white and oddly sharp. Her face was a wrinkled parchment of laughing lines and frowning trickles, her hair a gray mass of curls, her nose crooked with countless beatings, her upper lip was slit so that it looked as though she was constantly looking down on people with contempt. She was a emaciated thing, her dress gaping on her limbs, iridescent threads hanging loose which had once been part of a splendid pattern.

The crone was frail but she was stiffer than a trunk when Aelys was stiff but frail as a twig.

A sudden strain in her arm drew Aelys back to reality, the pain throbbing, sending her whimpering as if her whole arm had been ignited with a poisonous brazier. She usually handled heat well and rarely felt fire. She winced at that, her eyes filling with tears, and clenched her teeth, gritting not to cry. 'Never cry in front of someone powerful; they would use it to hurt you more' was a lesson she had long hard-learned and applied in the steppe.

The guards, it seemed, took delight in soiling their prisoners, spitting on them when too loud, pissing on them when drunk, barely feeding them, barely stopping to let them shit. Aelys could smell her feet, her throat sore from the foul, acrid smell.

They kept walking for days. At first Aelys's throat tasted of metallic blood, but the less she drank and the less she ate, the pain was outdone by other pains and the humiliation of compliance, the fear of death sizzling and ringing at all hours. Even prayers seemed pointless. There, in the steppe, there was no god, only pain.

The steppe grew peaty, swampy, marshy, then steppe again until the ground heaved and trees sprouted here and there, the river a still iridescent thread stretching from the mountains to the horizon. Shepherds led their flocks there to drink, cattle trampled the high-grassed grounds, wild horses ran through the plain in a thunderous noise and guards hailed at the working men and Aelys tried to give them beseeching eyes and was met with disappointment as peasants averted their eyes, some in blissful ignorance, others in contempt.

They could see the fortress now, a huge cube of gray stones against the cloudless blue of the sky. It was a faint thing afar, hazy with the distance, but overhanging and towering and looming all things considered: death, pain, torture, oblivion. There must have been a village nearby, the smell of burning wood a lingering smell in the air. Aelys wondered if they would hear if she yelled. They wouldn't care anyway. No one paid attention, why should they?

They stopped as the last rays of sunlight disappeared, darkness smearing across the great wide waste. The guards settled around a great fire, roasting sheep rousing grumbling stomachs. The starved prisoners were set around a tree. Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. No words allowed. Talking was risking a beating.

To keep herself busy, Aelys looked around, to catch a glimpse of life, a glimpse of freedom. Nothing struck her more than what she had already seen back home in the mountains, trees, grass, moss, no rocks apart the high stone and the pile of shattered rock near the fire. She thought she saw the circular patterns engraved on the highest stone faintly glow but shook her head. Hunger. It must be hunger. And exhaustion. And fear.

The crone smirked. “She's alive.” she uttered under her breath, relief washing off her scowl. “I'm coming _Da_ , I'm coming.” her tongue was foreign and rash. Her eyelids fluttered, her back straightened and for a fleeting moment old-age left her for might to irradiate all around.

A slap sent her lolling, bent on one side of the tree, another drew grunts and a third silenced her. “No talking.” yawled a guard.

“Having trouble taming a bitch?” bellowed one of his mates.

“Nah! Don't worry, I've a thing with animals! This one'll obey soon enough!”

“Shame you can't hump her! Might break her!”

“I reckon so! Maybe the girl'll be better.” he stepped closer to Aelys, his height towering, and forced her head in front of his, calloused and greasy fingers clasped around her sharp jaw. “What d'you say lass?” he clicked his tongue. “You're not so pretty. I'll need a few drinks.”

Aelys was thinking about biting him or spitting on his face. She didn't. What use could it be?

“Get you ass back here Odo! The commander might see you and she's got little patience with you already!” A burly bearded man said, his hair a yellowish silver. His eyes seemed kind. But kind for a soldier was cruel for a pauper.

“Bah! The fortress is so far away she can't see!”

“She's a female-commander! Who knows what she couldn't do more?”

Odo pushed Aelys's head away in anger. “Shittin' women!”

Aelys swallowed and silently thanked the gods, the sky and the commander for her good fortune. Then she remembered she was not deserving of it and focused on her pain.

The crone grinned still, her teeth deadly sharp, her eyes blazing wrath. “You shall be first.” she seethed.

The guards then secured the prisoners and set a watchman as night fell and soon they were sleeping sound and loud, snoring as if wanting to awaken the dead. The watchman dozed off.

Aelys couldn't sleep and if the crone had her eyes closed, she wasn't sleeping either. Night was a perfect time for hushed voices. Everything was silent, then.

“Why were you smiling when they were beating you?” Aelys's voice was wheezy and thin.

The crone wrinkled her nose and scowled. “Why would you care?”

“I am curious as to why. I always wonder why and this grin was of little sense to me.”

She sniveled. “Sense! You wouldn't understand sense and even then, sense twists and turns and is steered away from its meaning. Words are but fickle and no tongue can master truth. Sense is nothing. That which is is everything.”

“That which is?” Aelys suddenly felt a headache brewing. “Why did you grin?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“What is your name, then?”

“Names have power. I will not relinquish mine for the likes of you. You see, I don't trust you. You're like them,” she jerked her head towards the guards. “Though they're taller than you.”

Aelys thought she could feel anger at this but she was so empty she didn't. “They're Odomarian, I am not. Their hair is white, mine is red. They're tall, and I am small. We couldn't be more different.”

“Really? You are Austrar, that's the same to me.”

“My uncle said our family is special. Said our forefathers were not Austrar.”

“You drink their wine, you speak their tongue, you eat like them, you dress like them. I wouldn't even be surprised if you abode by their mindset. Your people is a people of sheep.” her words were harsh as stone, cold as ice.

Aelys groaned. “Because you think yours is better?”

The crone's eyes darkened like a thunderstorm in summer. “Who do you think I am?”

Aelys eyed her with suspicion and a bit of contempt. “Your white skin, your hair, your clothes... Everything about you screams Eltling to me. The people of the cursed lands. My uncle told me of your kind, wrathful, living in muddy huts and derelict castles while inane kings wait for their death.”

The crone snarled. “And you believe him?”

She shrugged. “My uncle is a bright man. The best man there ever was in Valmar. Of course I believe him.”

“Then your uncle is an ass.”

“He is not!” Aelys almost yelled and the watchman stirred. “He is not.” she seethed under her breath.

“Why, such a wise man must be a sage then!”

“He is not. He is a blacksmith! The best there ever was!” Aelys said with pride.

The crone laughed, mocking. “The best blacksmiths are long dead according to the legends. Your kind slew them.”

“The legends would be wrong. My uncle is most skilled.”

“Or a fool for boasting.”

“He does not boast. But I do.”

“Then you are the fool.”

Aelys wanted to say she wasn't but there was truth in the crone's words. She was a fool, a fool for traveling without a plan, a fool for leaving, a fool for her anger, a fool for her want to leave and a fool for following clouded dreams. She bit her lips, her teeth digging into her flesh for pain to give chase to her tears.

In the stories heroes always triumphed from their foes. In the stories, heroes never got caught. In the stories, heroes always escaped. In the stories, heroes were strong.

This was no story.

The crone smirked. “Your silence is of honey, child.”

“My name is Aelys.”

“A weak name.”

“A quick name.”

Aelys's jaw was set and gritty. The crone chuckled.

“Ha! It seems you have some fire left after all.” her voice, although cold held some kind of appreciation which Aelys found quite pleasing.

Aelys leaned on the tree and closed her eyes. “I feel surrounded by fire.” and guilt. A crushing guilt.

She suddenly snapped out of it. Something had changed in the camp. The guards, while snoring almost boomingly still seemed far away all fo a sudden, the sounds they made muted by a something lingering, wafting over like some air-made veil.

Aelys's heart began pounding in her chest and she grew uneasy.

There was something in the air, a wafting buzzing, a soundless humming prickling at everything around. There was a something; a silent calling tugging at her guts, a soft fluttering between excitement and fear. She could almost reach it, almost picture it, almost grasp it but it was made of thin air and thin air is as fickle as fate. Some words came but she did not know them and felt foreign on her tongue, feeling them slide around her without understanding them. It was a distant thing, and the more she thought about it, the fainter. Yet it called her still, that something.

She gave a wheezing breath, suddenly bare to the bone, terrified. The crone frowned but an instant and her face grew tame again. She gave a smile, as if she had just seen an old friend.

“You felt it too.” Aelys whispered but it reeked of fear.

Then she saw something on the crone’s face: sheer surprise, followed by curiosity, then spite, then surprise again, then stillness. “You, girl? You?” she gritted her teeth.

The buzzing suddenly stopped and Aelys felt hollow at once, deprived of anything if not a longing for something far off, something she could but perceive; a sightless aim, a longing astray. She shed a single tear. It still called, but it was fading.

“What was that?” she whispered.

“Something your wretched kind will hopefully never wield.”

Aelys's heart pounded in her chest and she felt herself gag. “Magic?” she croaked, her blood icened.

The crone didn't answer, her silence a loud answer. It seeped into the ground and it was gone.

 

They were shoved brutally into a damp cell, water oozing from the very stones, cold, dark, narrow and stinking with shit and other fecal matters. The floor had been hastily covered with hay and there was but one bed and one privy bucket. No windows, no privacy, no dignity. The grid slammed behind them with a clattering crash and the key turned into the lock with a dreary finality.

That was it. They were going to die here and Aelys would have never ventured farther than a cell.

Screams echoed afar, on other levels. The whole corridor seemed to teem with mud-crusted hands, dark and sticky. Despair filled the air with an acrid smell, too sweet not to gag. The walls themselves seemed red with blood and if she ventured long enough gazing at the walls, Aelys could see they had been scarred with many things: fists, carvings – she saw a little girl there, holding her father's hand – words she hardly could decipher and stones impact. Her hand ran over them all, decades of brutality. How many had died in that cell? She wouldn't be the first.

The crone went to sat in an unsoiled corner of their new quarters. Eyes closed, she leant on the damp wall, without for a minute considering the room. In a moment, she was elsewhere.

“I'll come back soon little cunt.” she heard a guard – she thought Odo – say. “We'll see what's under those rags of yours.” his voice had that ragged sound of drunkyards. “If you bleed blood as red as your damn hair.”

Aelys snarled. “You would burn.”

Amazing how in a cell she could at last unleash her anger. The grid did miracles with its iron shield. Aelys almost laughed at the irony.

Alas a cell was a cell and it was narrow enough for the guard to reach for her throat. He squeezed her throat tight and Aelys heard herself choke, breath cut short. “What did you say? Valmarian bitch!” he bellowed and spat.

Aelys could feel her neck snap, her bones cracking and turned in a desperate attempt to get the crone to notice the situation and intervene, but she was answered to with silence and stillness.

Oh well. She would die. Wasn't it what she deserved?

“Odo!” a voice boomed into the corridor.

“Shit!”

The guard tossed her brutally on the stairs that led to the grid and Aelys could swear she heard some of her bones snap, her skin blue with bruises. The impact made her ears ring cold, the pain a constant pounding, her limbs throbbing until they were sore from it. Her teeth rattled, her head knocked the opposite wall.

Yet still, she was alive.

“Commander.” the guard said with a honeyed deference that sounded too forced to be genuine. “What a wonderful thing to have you -”

“Here?” she cut him short, her voice deep as thunder and equally threatening. “Shut it Odo! You goad me with your foul niceties and I hate being goaded. Now, you will go downstairs and scrub the floor. I do not care if you bleed, but out of my sight or I'll have your head.”

“Yes commander. As you say commander.” he muttered angrily. “Shittin' women.” he seethed striding to wherever was downstairs.

Once out of sight, she snapped her fingers for a young guard to follow. “I do not want him inside my fortress. Send him away on my orders. Drunks shame me.”

“It will be as you say.” the guard nodded. “What about them?” he tilted his head towards the cell.

“One loaf of bread a day. The Valmarian we'll try to break. The Eltling witch, we'll shatter her.” her voice was hard as steel, unforgiving. “She can always conjure her beastly gods to come and aid her, it would be useless. No one has ever escaped from here. They won't last.”

She turned and suddenly was she gone. The hallway went silent and dark, the flickering light of the torches blown off by the guards.

Aelys tried not to succumb to despair but it was a thin line to walk and she had always been too burly and straightforward to walk it with the grace of a dancer. She had been born short and rough. There was no grace in her that enabled her to live the ordeal peacefully.

The crone smiled and suddenly a spark of frustration ignited Aelys's anger. “Why are you staying there so meekly? You're a witch, no? Better spell your way out!” she raged.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. “I can do no magic here, child. Not yet.”

Aelys punched the wall and let out a scream of pain to add to that she already suffered from. To tell she was asking for magic! To tell she debased herself down so low! To tell she ached for the vile revelry that was magic! People died from magic! Magic was endemic and it could never be stopped.

She swallowed a sob at the memory of her uncle telling her tales of valiant knights who, seduced by sorceresses, lost their ways and became little more than pigs served as the king's dinner. She recalled those long nights deep into the cold season when they grimly spoke of it, under the cover of secrecy, as not to awake the dark forces rummaging around. Speaking of magic out in the open would conjure devils. Witches came from the depth of folk's nightmares, sprang from the mist to wreak dread and rampage upon the world.

Aelys had heard enough stories of witches to know her cellmate was one. She should be afraid, terrified even, but she was far too angry not to cower behind the fire.

“So you are one,” an assesment.

The crone shrugged. “The crow goddess breathes through me, it is true, but I am little more than what I am.”

Aelys snarled. “Well, what an elegant way to put it!”

“Words have power. Ward yourself from them and you will never know fear.”

She let herself fall on the hay-smeared floor. “Too little too late.” she whispered.

Then, for a drop of courage, she ran those five words she had not ceased to repeat ever since she left, ever since the incident: _It has been woven in Fate._

And oddly, she believed it.

 

Time slowly lost its meaning. Was it night or day? Only the guards could say and they seldom opened their mouth to tell, rather barking insults, taking what they wanted from women, debasing their prisoners to the state of dogs.

Aelys thought she was starting to lose her grip on reality. She was hungry, her stomach a shallow void that would never fill. She was in pain. Every now and then one guard came to slap her senseless barking his questions, trip to tear some answers out of her.

Was she a spy? Was she here on behalf of the Valmarian queen? Was her design to assassinate king John? What did she want with the princes? What was Beatrix's plan? What was their weaknesses? Why did she keep on lying?

Aelys always told the truth, as straightforward as it was. But as the pain increased, the lies came prickling on the tip of her tongue. Every slap made the lies stronger and she almost believed it to be truth. Yes, she was a spy. Yes she would murder the king. Yes she was lying. Yes to everything so long as they stopped and killed her once and for all.

She should have gone mad. She thought she was going mad, but on the verge of this senseless abyss, she heard her uncle, always, remembered what he had done for her and what she had done in return. For all the beatings in the world, her guilt eased up, almost fading away.

Had this been woven in Fate?

The crone, on her side of the cell was seized away every time the guards saw fit to wake their prisoners up - if Aelys couldn't get a grip on time yet, she knew their nights were short, for she always woke up sore and tired – and came back bluer with bruises, red with cuts, thinner but oddly straighter while Aelys could but shrink under the blows. The crone's bones seemed to rattle and shatter in deafening blusters, but so rarely did she flinch or as much as show pain that it was as if she were dead. Yet, her smile grew and grew and grew, her lips thin threads of blood cutting on a hardened face. As stoically as she bore the ordeal, her blazing eyes betrayed that she, of all people, couldn't be broken so easily.

Something about her screamed power and something about her made Aely's fingertips flutter with anticipation. Or was it something else?

The guards stopped coming eventually and Aelys didn't know if the days were days or months, or years or centuries. Time lost its meaning in the dark. She only knew that her bones, once healed, would be broken again.

“Nothing lasts.” she uttered weakly, her voice grieving and thin, crouched in her little corner of hay and shit.

The crone groaned. “You're still alive.”

“You're smiling.” Aelys's voice grew almost accusing but she was far too engulfed in her agony to even give power to her words.

The crone chuckled and that was it. Aelys's voice died and every replies she could have said.

 

“She's here. _Da_.”

It was all the crone was whispering. Always. Relentlessly. It was all Aelys had heard for the past hours, days, months, she couldn't say. It heaved on the crone's tongue, a heavy sea, almost regular, yet a bit of havoc in the sounds, the tone, the speed. Aelys dwelt in those variations with a desperation she rarely encountered. She walked the thread between sanity and madness and if the crone stopped her whispering she didn't know if she would go mad or the other way around.

The words unravelled in her mouth, a smile resembling dementia spread across her face.

“What are you saying?” Aelys quietly groaned after an eternity hearing her cellmate.

The crone slowly turned to her. “It's time.” her smile widened.

“Time for what?”

“Fire.”

A cold shiver ran down Aelys's spine as she caught a glimpse of the crone's face in the darkness, teeth red, eyes glowing, unblinking, unfeeling. For a moment she thought the crone had gone mad, then she recalled the stories her uncle told. Witches lingered with demons and madness at once. Witches killed. Witches butchered.

But she somehow knew she would not be harmed. It was not hope, it was certainty shrouded by mist and fear.

“Fire. How would you set a fire here?”

The crone smirked. “By asking nicely.”

“Don't know if you noticed, but we're in a cell.”

“A minor inconvenience.”

Aelys squinted at the grid; rust round the edges, dark and as thick as can be. She tried to recall the sound it had made when they were thrown in; the sound of a lock used far too long, rusted, poorly kept and poorly made, weak and frail. And she had been too caught up in her own thoughts and despair to notice. She wanted to punch someone for her own stupidity. It was almost as if the days in the cell had but erased the iron she had known all her life.

Almost.

“When would you set your nice little fire?” Aelys asked, her spirits suddenly back as she entertained the thought of freedom.

“Time is of the essence. Now would be best for all of us.” the crone's voice had a desperate edge to it.

Unexpected.

Something called in the iron, a faint voice for only Aelys to hear. It pulled on her body, on her eyes. She could feel something inside the grid; something that told her how to make and how to break at the same time. Something Aelys thought she had only hallucinated as a child. Her guts fluttered, instinct surged and she suddenly knew what to do.

“Child?” The crone's voice had grown concerened. There was no telling how much time they had left.

“Shut up, I'm seeing something!”

“Then see it quick!”

“There!” Aelys exclaimed, crawling to the grid.

She shook the grid out of its hinged and slammed it left and right, hoping for the lock to give in. She slammed and slammed inwards and backwards, harder, harder, feeling her pain numbing so suddenly she felt at a loss. And she shook the grid, shook it till she heard a satisfying metallic crack inside the stone the grid was set into.

A dim light flickered afar, footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Aelys's heart rammed against her ribcage as her blood finished icening in her veins. She shook the iron quicker, quicker and always quicker, harder and harder till she panted. She slammed it again and again and again with desperation.

The footsteps were closer by now.

Quicker and quicker, harder and harder. Aelys's breath caught in her throat. She whimpered, begging the metal to give in, praying to all the gods and mostly Aeckar, god of death and magic, for it was what would likely be her undoing.

The footsteps were almost here. Almost.

She gave one last rattling punch at the grid and was gratified with the grid unhinging completely.

A guard stopped in front of them. The commander.

Aelys stood silent and horrified when she suddenly felt the crone holding tight on the rails, her hands two white things clasped around the metal, pushing it back in place.

“Water!” she croaked. “Please, my good lady! Water!”

Aelys faced her, dumbstruck at how well she played the part of the desperate prisoner.

The commander did not smile. Her face was as hard as her sword. “You've had your share.” she showed the empty pitcher with her head.

“Please! Please good lady! Please let us out.” the crone was sobbing now, her voice wretched.

“That cannot be possible. I have orders.”

“Please! Please! I'll talk! I'll talk! I swear!”

The commander turned to Aelys. “Would you talk too?”

The crone quickly shot her a glare and Aelys understood. Better play the part.

“I will! I swear I will! Please!”

The commander clicked her tongue, fiddling with a long braid of moon-like silver, her face covered with white scars, her burly figure towering over her prisoners, almost stifling any light. “Good.” she said without any emotion but a fierce satisfaction. “I'll send water tomorrow.”

“When is that? When, good lady?” the crone was almost crying now, her hands up, grazing the commander's waist.

“When I decide so. And please, quit making so much noise. I am trying to sleep.”

“Good lady! Good lady!” the crone called as the commander walked away, returning the hallways to darkness. “Good riddance.” the crone muttered.

Aelys took a deep breath to steady her heartbeat. “Now what?”

“Now, you discard that grid and we go.”

“Where?” Aelys's eyes were wide opened, disbelieving that her cellmate would have turned to be so good a comedian, that she had not been killed, that she had been able to play the part as well – tears fake or real. That she had heard a voice inside of the steel.

“To my sister.”

Aelys shook her head and stepped back. “Your sister?”

“Now, to the stones.”

“You have a sister?”

“If she is still alive, yes.”

“Wait – did you – did you come here on purpose?” Aelys disbelievingly stammered.

“Yes.”

“How – how did you know she was here?”

The crone gave one of her cryptic smiles. “We were born on the same day. There are pathways that never shut, no matter the magic or lack thereof. Now shut it, I need focus.”

Aelys rolled her eyes mimicking the way the crone had spoken as she went into a trance, eyes white, revolving, softly buzzing. And her mouth poured out words Aelys couldn't understand, and a cold shiver ran down her spine, and for the first time Aelys knew fear.

It was as they said, dark and dismal, gray, lightless, unknown, too powerful for control and Aelys almost felt it slip from the old woman's hands, almost felt it tear her apart, almost felt it draw life away from everything. Aelys saw it raw, with all its grim glory. Magic toyed with life and death, a fickle knave, not knowing what evil it would do next.

It all suddenly came to a revelation. Magic was an overcrushing force of destruction set loose. It couldn't be trusted, couldn't be wielded, couldn't be controlled.

True darkness indeed.

The crone opened her eyes again and suddenly Aelys saw her taller, stiffer, younger. It was unnatural playing with time. Only gods could.

She strode forth the hallway, not needing any torch, relying on a path only she knew.

Aelys tiptoed on her spot for a moment before she finally decided to follow. No matter fear, something about the crone, about what she felt in the clearing and onwards compelled her in her guts to follow the woman and not let go.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“Getting my stone.”

“I thought we were getting to your sister.”

“The stone first.”

“What for?”

“Magic.”

“But you just did it.”

“That wasn't magic.”

“Then what was it?”

The crone rolled her eyes as they engaged in a twirling staircase. “It was feeling. It was opening. Now shut it. I do not have the time to lecture you.”

They silently hurried up the stairs, careful not to give any hint of their presence away, and while Aelys's heart seemed about to burst out of her chest, the crone still hummed, almost serene, too confident to feel danger anymore.

“There!”

The crone hastily stepped into a dark hallway leading to a square room high and large enough for ten giants to seat at ease. Weapons were carefull set onto the walls, glinting with the flickering torchlight. Aelys saw in there dozens of tables, a large fireplace, and a square scarred with many blows. A training square. Framing the fireplace was a shelf riddled with belongings of all sorts. Here was a golden tooth, a sword or two, a dagger, bracelets, bags of something that resembled weed, green-glowing jars of something, money and countless empty purses and shepherd staffs. And there, in the midst of it all were two little stones of nothing, set around a coil of silver.

The bellowing of the guards caught Aelys in her observation and she started. She pressed her back against the wall, almost to the point her body sank into the rock and held her breath, while the crone did the same beside her, a fierce determination sharpening her every features.

“Now what?” Aelys tartly asked.

“You saw the stone?”

Aelys gulped and nodded. “Third row on the right.”

The crone's smile icened and she stepped into the light of the large room. At once all guards were on her but she kept walking, serene. The sound of scraping metal. Swords, arrows. Heavy footsteps. Bloodlust at all corners.

The time for them to sober up and take arms, the crone was halfway there. A blade came dangerously close to her figure but she did not falter. She kept moving, eyes riveted to the stones waiting for her there – tiny pieces of nothing, pieces of everything.

They were all attacking her. One of them had drawn his arrows, another aimed for the knees and a third was ready to stab at her back.

Then, she started to sing.

“ _The old king Uhter had a sheep, sheep sheep._

_A sheep that wouldn't go to sleep, sleep sleep._

_He shrouded the moon, he fired out the sun,_

_but the little sheep wouldn't sleep, sleep sleep._ ”

It was a song of her own tongue, rolling warmly round the corners, a soft song, a sing-songy soft lullaby. And the guards swayed, eyelids suddenly heavy, and Aelys herself felt suddenly dizzy with sleep, and the tiny stone seemed to glow, but Aelys knew it not being possible. And then, the clatter of weapons falling to the floor, and the muffled sound of bodies falling still after them. And to complete the melody, loud snores and breaths of sleepy men.

Aelys had to blink to keep awake while the crone kept singing and gently fetched her belongings. She caught a glance at Aelys and frowned. She bent to the smallest of the guards and took his tight hose, his long short-sleeved shirt, his belt, a dagger, his boots and his cloak to hand them to the maiden who had witnessed twenty or more men fall suddenly still at a lullaby.

“How-” Aelys stammered, her voice barely audible in the deafening silence.

“They were tired. A lullaby always compels whimsical babies to sleep.” She considered the stones in her hand, her smile warmer. “Now, _Da_ , to you.”

She clasped the necklace round her neck and there was a sudden change in the air, acrid stench chased by the smell of mountains after a thunderstorm, the same energy, the same taste of power, something surging from the core of the earth to the aether in a soaring column of sheer might. The crone closed her eyes, nostrils flared as though she was to inhale it all. And she was suddenly a weak crone no more. Her hair grew thick and dense, her skin lost that grayness that had grown attached with it with age and Aelys even thought she saw some of her scars and wrinkles fade.

There was a change for a glorious moment but it wafted away and the crone was back to herself.

She eyed Aelys scornfully. “Get dressed. Your rags stink.”

She complied in a haste, afraid to even look at the crone in the eyes.

They wandered from hallways to hallways and the crone didn't bother with noise anymore. She kept singing her tune and opening locks on her way down the deepest cell. All guards fell past her voice and all they encountered on their way were sleeping men and women.

Aelys walked several steps behind the crone, still so afraid of what she had seen. Was she going to be bent to sleep as well? What more could magic do? What more could it undo?

After what seemed an eternity wandering among the maze they stopped in front of a thick wooden door and a cold shiver ran down Aelys's spine. Through the narrow grid there was blood. A hand, knobbly, shrivelled, damaged limbs to the point of it hanging loose.

She felt the crone stiffen by her side.

“It's locked.” Aelys said. “What do we do?”

The crone held out a set of key, shaking it. Aelys opened her eyes wide.

“How?”

“The commander likes her prisoners begging too much to care for a nimble hand by her waist.” her voice was thin, a dangerous edge to it. “Today they pay. All of them.”

The lock clicked with the key and with a shrill grinding sound, the door opened to darkness. Another click, more metallic, two then three, then four and a thud.

Something – _someone_ – stirred at Aelys's feet.

“What have they done to you?” the crone's voice was mourning.

Aelys heard someone drink and felt someone stumbling to their feet. Then the clasp of a necklace. Then power.

“Breda?” a faint broken voice called. “Is that really you?”

“Yes, _Da_. I have come for you.” the crone's voice was now featherlight and filled with tenderness.

The other voice, as old as the crone's spoke again, with shame, croaking, hoarse and sad. “I couldn't stop them – I – I failed and now – Breda -”

“Later. Now we escape from here. I suggested some guards to set a cart for us with supplies, but I cannot bend them to my will alone much longer. I need you.”

“The paths are open now. I can feel it.” she blinked. “Breda, who is this?” she looked at Aelys with curiosity but also sheer gentleness.

“Aelys. My cellmate. She dislodged the grid. I owe her.” the crone's voice was as cold as untouched steel.

Aelys turned to the crone. “So your name is Breda?”

Breda rolled her eyes. “Yes. Now let's move! Fire does not ignite itself!”

“I am Dairine.” the other one said softly. “Nice to meet you.”

Breda pursed her lips. “Enough with the niceties. Let's go.”

Off they went, throught the sleepy hallways, opening as many cells as they could, dozens running for freedom in their wake, ensuring chaos to confuse the guards that were still awake. They all headed straight to the gates. They ran, all of them and finally light surged from the opened large door, the only door to a great massive tower of gray stones walled with thick walls of iron-spikes and sharp rocks.

Aelys's head was dizzy with that sudden blazing light. It was red outside. Dawn. It felt as though her eyes caught fire. She could almost go blind.

Then suddenly the clattering sound of a small army stepping right in front of them, the gargling of men whose flesh was slit opened by blades, the smell of blood, the smell of steel.

They were surrounded.

“I should have known my men falling asleep was no coincidence. I should have known you dregs would use your vile magic against us. I will make that right.” the commander stepped forward in all of her burly glory, slowly unsheathing a large and heavy sword.

“You will kill us then.” Breda calmly said.

“I vowed on protecting our kingdom, our men and women from the likes of you. I _will_ kill you before you vile sluts kill any of my men right here. You humiliated them and I won't stand for it!” she gritted.

Breda smirked, Dairine resolute beside her. “So be it.” she then muttered something of her own language to her sister and both nodded.

Their eyes revolved in their sockets, their hands sprang forward, their mouths opened. Whispers suddenly ran round the walls, words colliding against one another, wafting, hovering everywhere but to Aelys and the commander it seemed. It echoed with a grim sweetness on the walls, seeped into ears, into brains like a sweet delicacy, enchanting, enticing, entrapping.

_Kill. Kill. Kill. Slaughter your mate. See how he looked at you? He wants your gold. He wants your girl. Kill. Kill. Kill. Isn't that pleasing? Come and kill. You never know whom you can trust._

The guards suddenly began to get at each other's throats, the sudden clatter of metal against metal deafening. The whispers thickened, hardened, seeping to the very roots of the world in a chaos of words.

_Kill, kill, kill._

A guard parred with the commander in a violent fury, roaring as his blade crashed against hers. A slice colored her cheek with red blood, another guard was on her and cut her behind the knees while all around men fell like trees, chopped down to their very heads.

Aelys pressed her eyes shut and covered her ears while screams of terror reached them, shaking, crying. She could smell blood at all corner and felt herself gagging. She wondered if the men knew what they were compelled to do. She wondered if magic had turned them to empty vessels of flesh to be butchered. She wondered about their pain. But then, had they wondered about hers?

The commander hollered and cried as she beheaded a man with her thick blade. Another man hit her and she fell on the ground. There, she crawled and, eyes hard and cold, resolute in her mission, she cut and slashed and slit whatever she could, killing her own men for the sake of survival.

“Bitches!” she yelled, spitting blood and spit. “I'll kill you!”

The fortress suddenly caught fire and screams of men set ablaze with the building echoed behind the two witches.

The commander's eyes widened with horror. “No!” she yelled with despair.

She scrambled to her feet and slew three of her own men with merely a blow and rushed towards the witches and Aelys, who instinctively recoiled. The blazing roaring flames almost licked her hands, but Aelys kept recoiling, afraid to the bones.

Then, in the midst of a chaos of swords, the commander fell, a blade through her chest, eyes still glaring, wheezing, crawling.

_Kill, kill, kill._

The commander screamed again, hands impaled with daggers. She could move no more.

_Kill, kill, kill._

Breda and Dairine walked amidst the brawl.

_Kill, kill, kill._

A man was on another, crushing his skull with a rock.

_Kill, kill, kill._

A man was on top of another, gashing his face with his knife.

_Kill, kill, kill._

A man fell and was felled by another.

_Kill, kill, kill._

Blood, guts, pieces of brains, shattered bones, severed limbs. Blood. Steel and blood. Screams. Screams and whispers.

_Kill, kill kill._

_Kill, kill kill._

_Kill, kill kill._

Aelys reeled and fell, the violence of the world fading to black _._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see and welcome to the murder! I apologize to you who read this that it took me so long to wrap my head around this chapter. I was caught up deep into uni stuff but hey! Good news! I'll be studying in England next year. So I guess it paid off. As for the Sword of Stones, I now have a clear idea where to go in the near future and stay tuned because Aelys's journey has just begun and homegirl is going to be hella surprised!


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